Dream Girl

The last images of the night were of mountains
and children. In the morning, of a woman
with a man straddling her on the couch
of the first house I lived in. They were embarrassed,
which made me embarrassed, and angry.
Some confluence of two women, one whom I respect
and one I do not. I’d been thinking of the good woman
a few days before, so I suppose that made sense.
She had upset me, mostly because I had no cause
to be upset, but she ruined herself for me.
The other one I’d not thought of in months.
She was living in Paris with a man-child.
My tenderness had not worked for her.
The first words of the day were I have nothing
to say to you, and I aimed my grim finger
at the wall, my brow furrowed like a child’s.
After breakfast, I felt better. But the dreadful part,
as I searched my unconscious mind, was that the man
straddling my dream girl is a dear friend I’ve not spoken to
in years, though I think of him often, and love him, and hope he is well.